Someday
by DragonSlayer357
Summary: Slight AU. In a postwar setting how does anyone handle life on their own? How do you grow up when everything is taken from you? RockyxGunther CecexDeuce


i. Prelude

It is the year 2020. The great war has been over for barely a few months now. The peace is superficial, however, and in the heart of the steam-driven, dusty ashes of what was once America lies a little gem of a city. The city has expanded in the years of war. After bombings and raids it stands as the sole manufacturer in the wavering new republic.

Many children live in the shadows of New Chicago's skyscrapers, but of these many, only a few serve any purpose to you, dear reader. You aren't interested in just anybody's story. Oh, no. They must be special. The ragged skyline holds hope for many, but there are always the few who have lost it entirely.

These tales (there are but three as of yet) provide an inside look to the inner workings of the new Chicago and to the way of the teenager, which the war failed to change. Though days and weeks and months go by, there is bound to be somone, somewhere feeling the same.

Rocky (oh, was she your favorite after all?) still lives in Chicago. Her and her friends are older now, and they seem to have drifed apart with all the suddenness of the war. She barely sees anyone anymore, with schoolwork and whatnot. There simply isn't the time. She will make time, however, for a certain boy, as we will soon see.

I. Rocky

She whispers to herself sometimes, because his name just sounds so smooth rolling off of her tongue. She stutters when he speaks to her,and even the great Rocky Blue is not immune to the charms of the blond-haired officer at the academy.

Of the many changes instigated by the war, an active military was a surprisingly difficult thing to come by. America's men and women were dying fast and furiously at the hands of most of the rest of the world. Arguments about nuclear power, threats and explosions, none on American soil (or maybe there wouldn't be much of a story to tell, except maybe radiation and the prolonged suffering of many). It was soon established that nuclear acttivity of any kind could lead to the destruction of the ozone much quicker than intended. Not one madman stepped up to this plate, the old world-domination strategies crumpled up and thrown away when it was realized the world wasn't much to dominate.

Slowly the war tapered off to an end, and the officers and soldiers still living were transferred back to their home countries. It was a joyous day for many, But Rocky, when the planes arrived, found herself holding a _Ty Blue, come home_ sign far after everyone had arrived at the terminal. Ty didn't come home, and it wasn't until weeks later that the letter came in the mail. They lived in a nicer part of Chicago now, one that had been overlooked by looters and thieves. She attended a fancy academy, her tuition earned by her doctor father in the city's hospitals. She was to be a doctor too, someday.

She had been steadily working math problems when the doorbell rang. It tinkled through its scale again before she had even gotten up to see who was at the door. Peering through the peephole, Rocky was surprised to see a young man, nicely dressed, checking a gilded pocketwatch. Visitors were rare, especially ones of this elaborate dress. He snapped the pocketwatch's two halves back together and eyed the doorbell button again wih watery blue eyes. Just before he could press his finger to the button again, Rocky opened the door.

"Oh," He appeared startled, but regained his composure quickly. "Miss Blue? This letter is for you," The messenger pulled an ornate envelope from his jacket. "It is an invtaion to a grand gala, to be held at the academy in two weeks' time. Mr. Hessenheffer would sincerely appreciate your attendance."

At this he bowed deeply and strode away. Rocky looked down at the invitation in her hand and took a moment to absorb what had just happened. The Rocky from before the war might not have even bothered with the thick cardstock invitation. She might have consulted Cece. But being the new, post-war Rocky, she took the envelope inside for inspection. The deep thud of the door closing was a lonely sound.

When her mother arrived home from work, Rocky handed her the piece of paper. _Official_, read the type in the top right corner. _Gunther Hessenheffer cordially requests your presence..._ read the letter beneath it. Her mother scanned the letter, her eyes traveling gradually down the page.

"Gunther?"

Rocky just nods. She doesn't know what's coming.

"Are you going to go?" Her mother is simply curious.

"Yes, I mean, I'd like to, as long as that's okay with you and Dad..."

Her mother smiles, mouths the words _an officer_ and pulls Rocky into a hug. She assures her that her father will approve ("An officer!") and immediately begins talking about dresses and corsages and dancelike things that mean nothing to the outside world.

Three weeks later, he appears at her door at six o'clock sharp. He wears a fancy looking tuxedo and his tie matches her dress and the flowers he brings her. He smiles that beautiful smile and offers her his arm. She, of course, takes it.

She spends the night on his arm, smiling and making polite small talk. She sipped at a glass of red wine, the expensive kind (The woman she'd been talking to assured her it'd be fine ). Guther nodded in approval, and she really couldn't say no. As she looked closer at the party guests, she had realized that most of them looked like they didn't want to be there. One girl with chunks of her hair dyed a bloody red actually has an old pair of Chuck Taylors on with her dress. All in the name of comfort, Rocky supposes. The girl with the Chucks laughs and her teeth sparkle in the half-light. She's eating away at a plate of appetizers in a careless way. Her dress is a red that complements her shoes and her hair nicely.

Rocky is broken out of this trance by Gunther squeezing her hand. He looks at her with concern in his eyes. She shakes her head and looks away from the girl. He stares at her a bit longer before resuming his conversation with the heavily decorated man on his other side.

The girl's boisterous laugh and easygoing smile remind her of Cece. Rocky sighs, twirling a strand of hair around her finger and remembering talks of prom dresses and dates, back before the war, almost a lifetime ago.

It seems that they are there for hours, and it comes as a surprise when Gunther tells her (finally!) that it's time to go. Outside it's very dark, and the stars are out, shining hazily from behind the layer of smog surrounding the city. Most of the city is dark.

"If you don't mind-" Rocky jumps at Gunther's soft voice by her ear. She hadn't heard him sneak up behind her.

"You can come back to my place with me. My father said he would call your parents and let them know depending on how long we were. "

"Oh. Alright then! Let's go to your house then..." She trails off and winks.

Gunther grins. The ride back is relatively uneventful. When they arrive on the front lawn of the Hessenheffer mansion, Gunther thanks the driver and they file inside. Mrs. Hessenheffer is up still, though the clock on the windowsill reads 1:17.

"Mother, it's late! you didn't need to wait up for us, really, we'll be fine!"

"I just wanted to make sure you were alright. A mother does worry!" She smiles knowingly.

"We're fine!" Gunther rolls his eyes. Taking Rocky's hand he leads her down a hallway and into a room that is small in comparison with the rest of the house. Gunther gestures towards the bed and tells her to sit, then leaves the room. He returns about five minutes later dressed in a pair of old pajama pants and a shirt with a hole just above the left shoulder.

"There's a bathroom down the hall on the left," He starts rummaging through a drawer in a tall wooden dresser. "Wear these, they're Tinka's." He tosses her a pair of shorts and a tee shirt that's obviously his.

"Thanks!" Rocky grins in reply and wanders out of the room, feeling like a princess in her flowy purple dress.

In the bathroom, a greenish room with nice, pre-war silver fixtures, Rocky changes out of her dress and into the pajamas Gunther gave her. The shirt is soft, with the logo of a popular cartoon screenprinted on it. She rinses most of the makeup off of her face and gathers her things to bring them back to the room.

Gunther is waiting a little farther down the hall, and he looks up when he hears the door open. Rocky's hands are full with her dress, so he takes it from her and leads her down the hall, explaining the night's accomodations.

"You'll be sleeping in this room, just get the door here-" He fumbles for the doorknob and almost drops everything he's carrying. Rocky easesthe door open and they both go inside. It's a simple room, furnished in reds and deep browns. Gunther puts the dress onto the bed and flips the switch on a bedside lamp. Yellowish light floods th room.

"I'll be in the room just down there," He points out the door. "To the right. I'll leave to door open in case you need anything." He yawns. "You good?"

"Yep! Goodnight Gunther! Oh, and thank you for bringing me!" Rocky smiles. He grins back and holds out his hands for a hug. She jumps into his arms enthusiastically. He squeezes her tight, picking her up and twirling her around. She laughs, the sound echoing around the empty room in an almost sad way.

An hour later, she still can't sleep. She slips out of bed, and the feeling of the cold floor on her feet does nothing except perhaps wake her up more. There is a light on somewhere outside of the room, and she wanders slowly into the hallway in her bare feet and pajamas that are too large.

One of the bulbs in the hall chandelier is still glowing sfotly. This is where the light was coming from. A door is open. Rocky can't help herself. She peeks inside.

Gunther is curled up on the near side of the bed, wrapped in several blankets with a hand hanging over the side. The sight is rather adorable. He makes an odd snorting noise and stirs a little.

"Ungh, Rocky? 'Zat you?"

"Oh, I'm sorry! Go back to sleep, Gunther!" Rocky whispers worriedly. He reaches with one hand.

"Noooo, no, come here!"

She walks slowly, quietly, over to his bed. Once she's close enough, he grabs onto her and tugs her into the bed with him. She can feel heat radiating from him as he pulls her into an embrace. Sleepily, his words in her ear are slurred and slow.

"Can you stay here with me," He uses one of his old nicknames for her. "bay-bee?"

In response, she snuggles under the covers into him. She can feel her eyelids becoming heavier. Rocky drifts into sleep that night the happiest she's been in a long time.

Fifteen years later, they will have two children and a happy marraige, more than most of their friends ever thought they would. Somehow, they made it.

II. Deuce

Deuce spits a gob of thick blood onto the stained concrete of the ring's floor. Deuce shakes his head to clear the black spots at the edges of his vision. Blinking rapidly, he swings at his opponent to make him back off. The man, a slight blond, dances out of the way, but the punch skims his stomach. Deuce clenches both of his hands tighter, fingernails digging through the rags wrapped around his hands. Sweat has soaked into the thin bandana around his neck. The challenger, (a man far too light on his feet to stand a chance, Deuce thinks) steps lightly forward and encounters a hard right to the jaw that sends him reeling. Deuce finishes off with a jab to the stomach and a quick left-handed punch to the man's temple.

He goes out like a light and is on the ground before most of the audience realizes what has happened. Panting a bit, Deuce circles the man, waiting for a sign that he has won the match or his opponent's return to his feet. He hears the referee reach ten through the sound of adrenaline pumping through his body. The men watching the fight start to yell and cheer and Deuce can practically see the money changing hands.

The ref, a heavyset balding man perhaps in his fifties, hold up Deuce's arm and grins at him. Deuce smiles his crooked smile. About ten seconds pass, and Deuce knows this was how famous people felt before the war. The glaring crowd of faces is blinding. They are simply a mass of flesh, each man indistinguishable from his neighbor.

Deuce shrugs the man off and ducks out of the ring. His hands are damp under the rags, which are soaked through with sweat and blood. He tosses them into a bucket full of other scraps and discarded mouthgaurds. His ratty old backpack sits in a dark corner, and he scoops it up, headed to the showers.

The city water spraying from the showerhead is lukewarm, making it almost uncomfortable, but he manages to relax a little bit as he scrubs the dirt off of his hands. Lukewarm turns cooler and cooler until he's rinsing the last of the suds off with icy water.

He shivers a bit as he wraps a towel around his midsection. No one else is waiting for the showers. His was the last fight of the day, and he finds himself alone in the spacious locker room. The locker room itself had been a section of an old restaurant. The walls between the bathrooms and the freezer were knocked out and benches were put in along with a few lockers, which were rarely used anyways. Running his fingers through his hair, he pulls on a pair of dark jeans and a red shirt.

The door to the locker room sticks a bit when it opens, and Deuce remembers the way it use to smell in here when it was a restaurant. It always reeked of tomatoes and cologne. Most of the men have left and the overhead lights are off. He clicks in the combination and opens up his mailbox for his pay. The envelope is fatter than usual thanks to his excellent fight with that ameteur. He steps outside, looking both ways for any soldiers (The first rule about fight club...) but seeing no one he crosses the street and begins his evening commute back to the apartment. Behind him, the neon lights on the club's sign stay unlit. From its restaurant days, the sign has been beat up, and the first letter, a C, has been lost over the years.

_Rusty's fights are the best in the city._

The walk across the city will take him as long as an hour some nights, depending on how heavy pedestrian traffic is. Sometimes the vendors on the streets will be particularly boisterous and people will listen, causing crowds of people to clog for blocks around. Luckily, Deuce's intimate knowlege of the city give him a large amount of shortcuts to choose from. He slips in and out of alleyways, losing track of time. Soon he will be back in his apartment, which he knows for a fact is visible through Rocky's bedroom window. She could be seeing his family at a distance as often as every day, but she never visits anymore.

Cece does occasionally, and every time he sees her she looks dirty and half-starved. He assumes she is working, because she insists she's feeding herself. Every once in a while when she turns up she'll have a new pair of pants or a different colored shirt, and he supposes that's the best he's going to get.

He finds himself thinking about her a lot. If they were still in school, he'd be around her more, and he wishes sometimes that the war had never happened (who doesn't, really?). If Rocky could see him now, and talk to him, she would tell him that he loved her. But she can't, so he's sitting on a park bench in a park that no longer looks any different than the rest of the city. Smog spat out by the city's factories coats the sky and prevented plants from getting the proper amount of sunlight, so they all withered and died.

He begins humming to himself quietly and stands up. He's ready to go home. In the time he spent sitting there the sun has set and streetlights buzz around him. Electricity consumption is one of the things that the war impacted the most. In general, civilian home have little to none. Deuce's father works in a company partnered with the government (or at least what's left of it) so their house is allowed more than most of the apartments in that area.

Their building is also in one of the nicer neighborhoods of the new Chicago. A lot of houses, stores, and all buildings that had anything deemed valuable were looted or bombed. Rocky lives a while away, maybe twenty minutes on foot in the opposite direction of Rusty's.

Deuce climbs the stairs quietly, trying hard not to wake anyone on lower floors that might be sleeping. People go to bed earlier when there aren't any lights to do things by. He reaches their door and taps on it with the backs of his knuckles. His mother's eye appears, distorted by the glass on the outside of the peephole. Then she opens the door.

"Payday, Mama." Deuce hands her the envelope from the mailbox. His weekly winnings for smashing up faces. It was funny, he thought, how fights became a source of entertainment. They spend so much time trying to prevent something before the war, but after everyone loves seeing two men from the streets duke it out. Soldiers will even show up every once in a while to try and earn some extra cash.

"Thank you, Marty." She uses his real name. Of course she uses his real name. "Kitty and Travis are in bed already, so keep it down, okay?" She pecks him on the cheek, takes a five from the envelope and hands it to him.

"Welcome, Mama." He takes the money and tiptoes through the hall into his room. Half of the room is his. Or, he supposes, half of it used to be, but all of it is now.

Deuce had two brothers when the war came. His older brother, Joey, signed up as soon as he could to be a fighter pilot. They had always called him Ace, and his fascination with flying had only strengthened the practice. He was first, and therefore he was Ace. Deuce was Deuce, number two. He called Travis Tres, for three, and Kitty was Kat. All of the Martinez boys looked painfully alike, with black hair and those thick Cuban eyebrows.

Deuce was three years older than Trav and seven years older than Kat. They were best friends, those two. You couldn't separate them for the world. Deuce pitied them for the fact that they had never seen the pre-war world. It had been a wonderful place. When Ace left, his father took to drinking. He had been their protector, their papa, their rock, but he had become withdrawn and angry at his son's departure.

Travis had been five and Kat an infant. In drunken madness, their father would lash out, but Deuce had ensured their safety for his mama. She'd worked far too many hours then, leaving him with the kids and Papa. Deuce knew that she had been afraid then, and so had he, but she didn't bother much with him.

Deuce needed to grow up, very fast. At nights, he began going out to a looted gym to punch at the bags that were left. He had done pushups, situps, you name it. He hadn't so much bulked up as toughened up. He was taller, maybe a little broader than before the war. Definitely quieter. His mother asked why, but she knew. She had seen the scars.

He sighs, flopping into bed. Tomorrow he will wake up, his mother will dump the kids on him, and he will be stuck watching them until she comes home. Around four, he'll walk over to Rusty's and change. He will wrap his hands and psych himself up for a new fight. Just like he does every day. The other men in the locker room will shun him like they always do. He's too young to fight, they say. They're just jealous he wins so much.

Now, though, he's alone, (surprise!) and he hates it. Maybe he can see Rocky or Cece soon. Or anyone. He needs to find some friends. Tonight he is lonely, and snatches of love songs are playing themselves over and over near his temples. They throb insistently. If there's somebody out there for him, where is she now?

As he lies awake in his bed in the upper apartment that he lives in with his loving (for the most part) family, his love, the one, his soulmate lies less than two blocks away behind an old dumpster hoping that the men won't come back. Tonight she will fall asleep, but it will be light and tortured, nothing like the deep slumber Deuce finds himself falling into.

Unbenownst to him, she lies awake and alone, and she's wishing, hoping for someone. Anyone.

III. Cece

There's a dim ringing somewhere above the surface. Floating through a murky darkness, she moves closer and closer to the light. Reaching out, she opens her eyes to find herself gasping for air in a filthy alley. It is early morning still, and she rises stiffly off of the thin blanket she's been sleeping on.

She stretches, catlike and makes her way about, pulling on a worn leather jacket over her shirt. A shabby lean-to against a brick apartment building is where she lives now. She is off to a sketchy factory making parts for padlocks.

Her nose is stuffy and she can feel a slight chill in the air. It's getting gradually colder out. Soon it will be snowing, and she will be huddled up against the radiator on the side of the building every night. She shivers.

The day is slow and monotonous. She works the classic eight-to-five, plus a few illegal extra hours. She is trying to earn money, to earn anything that will differentiate her from the other urchins of the street. She wants the men to stop asking her how much, and for the women to stop scrunching up their faces or holding their noses when they walk by.

This empty motivation gets her through every day, and on a day like today, it takes a lot more. So she lets herself dream, lets herself hope. Love is the main protagnist in these fantasy landscapes. Fluffy clouds and the fields with flowers from before the war. Back when the air smelled sweet and nothing was grimy for long.

She is on her way home after a long day. She can feel the grit under her fingernails and the dust on her face. There is a river running through the middle of the city where she can wash some of the dirt off.

It is nearing sunset before she finishes, and the streetlights are beginning to come on. She manages to get most of the filth off of her body, and she is ducking into an alley shortcut when she hears something (it was the flash of red hair that made him call her name).

When she turns, her face is so damn near _perfect_ under the streetlight. He realizes then that she is, and has always been the girl with his heart.

"Cece!" He jogs over, paycheck in hand and backpack straps swinging. "Is that you?"

She looks down at herself, embarrassed, and nods yes.

"Here, come on." He holds out one hand to her. "Let's go over to my house and get some dinner! You look starved!"

They walk to his apartment, hand-in-hand, and it's only a few blocks from where she's been staying. He doesn't say anything, and he doesn't have to, because for her, being with someone is enough.

His mother remembers her from before the war (she's the red-haired one) and Cece eats more that night than she has in a long time. Deuce's little siblings stare a bit, but their mother warns them off so Kat starts talking with Travis about the Smiths' new cat upstairs.

When Cece has eaten her fill, Deuce asks if they can be excused to his room. Mrs. Martinez gives him a classic mom looks and with a "No funny business, Mister!" she shoos them from the table. Deuce leads her into his room and closes the door. They sit on the bed and simply talk for what seems like hours. They get to talking about her dancing, and how she doesn't really anymore.

The whole time he's been flirting in his subtle way, and he tells her if she ever needs a dance partner he's so there.

"Can you even dance, Deuce?" She's grown more comfortable in the dim room, and they're both reclined on the bed. Deuce stands and wiggles a bit, shuffling his feet around.

"Doesn't this count as dancing?" He grins.

"No!"

He pouts. Cece grins at him.

"Not even a little bit?"

"Noooooo!" She smiles at him again, realizing that the entire time he's been flirting, she's been letting him.

Deuce takes her hands (finally!) and pulls her closer. Her face is a little sooty and her eyes tired. He does not hesitate, taking her in his arms. The embrace is tender, warm, and Cece wishes every night was like this. He loosens up a bit, and she looks into his eyes. It's funny how they're the same height still, perfectly matched.

His lips feel strange and new, but in a pleasant, comforting way. In the time she spends there with him, she can almost forget how her house is the equivalent of a cardboard box and her job is terribly boring.

His vest is a thick orange one from before the war, and it's soft between them. The way he moves is confident and smooth, and she finds it endearing. She giggles.

The sky outside his window is lit up a yellowy orange, the flicker of streetlights failing to block out the heavy clouds over the city. Cece can hear the pinging noise of rain bouncing off the sheet metal used as roofing now. The rain picks up, banging and clanging and soaking the windowsill before Deuce realizes what's happening and rushes over to shut the window.

Cece sits down on the bed, sinking into the worn matress. He turns by the window, smiling. He walks over, stopping right in front of her. He bends at the waist, putting a hand on the bed on either side of her and leaning into her, his lips on hers. She can feel him pressed up against her, tough through the thick vest. They're breathing heavily and his lips are urgent, hungry.

She loses herself soon, like she wants to, in cuddlings and the feel of warm bodies pressed between sheets. Tonight she sleeps in a house, and she is warm. She wakes at least three times, panicked, but finding herself in his strong arms, she drifts off again into a soft slumber.

Deuce wakes in the morning in his clothes from the night before and with a tired-eyed Cece in his bed. He takes a moment to memorize the way her hair waves around her face, and squeezes her against him. She loves the way he feels and the way he just radiates warmth from every pore in his body. His voice rumbles in his chest.

"Hey, Ce?"

"Mmmmmm?" She slurs sleepily.

"You can, um," He drops his gaze. "stay here, at our house? You know, if you'd like to, and my mom is..." He stops, and wipes a tear from the side of Cece's face. She hadn't even realized she was crying until now.

"D-Deuce, I re-really-" She sniffles. "As long as it's okay, and- and-" She bursts into tears again.

He waits, because he is a patient boy, he's waited years and years for her to come around. She stops crying eventually, and tells him that she'd love to.

Later that day (she listens at the door) Deuce's mother tells him that she trusts him, and that his little girl-friend can stay, and hasn't he been sweet on her a while now, and when is the wedding? He comes out triumphant, and she moves what she has left onto a shelf in his room.

~She still works at the factory, though it's been years. She worked her way up, and pays a portion of the rent now. Her and Deuce aren't married yet, but every day he carries the old, pre-war fashion ring in his pocket he gets closer and closer to asking.

iv. Epilogue

So they are happy, and love shall endure. Somehow they have survived those teenaged years, as so many children everywhere struggle to do. They found themselves somewhere along the way, and they found each other. Life is not easy in this new city, this new world, but has it really ever been?

I leave you with this, dear reader: Through war and starvation, through the little things (through sickness and health...), through the big things, love can and will find a way.

And yes, there is hope for you too.


End file.
